


Awkward Git

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-10 23:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: The night of the Fall, the night he is leaving, perhaps for good, Sherlock does something unexpected. Molly Hooper is wise. Mycroft sees all but says little.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is sexual content contained within. I don't think it is particularly mature, but I set the rating thusly, lest anyone be offended.

There were a lot of things that Sherlock didn’t understand about people.

< > A. Lot. 


          The outside of a person was easy, the easiest thing in the world. He could read anyone. (His mind skittered away from the memory of The Woman, who had nearly bested him). Mycroft had shown him how, years ago, when he was just gone eleven, and he had only gotten better over time.

          It was the _inside_ which could so often confound him. People’s insides were so messy, tangles of memory, emotion, wants and needs and urges all jumbled about. The impulses that drove them made no sense to him. Why did everyone spend so much time focusing on what they were going to eat, where they were going next, who they fancied and when they would get it off with them, what celebrity was doing what mad thing? It was all just noise.

          Sherlock didn’t eat frequently (it interfered with the work); he went where the work took him; he didn’t care about celebrities.

          He didn’t fancy people. And when he needed physical release he usually resorted to the old schoolboy standby.

          There were exceptions. Sometimes a person or a situation would make him alter his path (momentarily, of course). He always initiated the encounter. He set the rules. He never looked back and he never regretted anything (what was the point? Regret changed nothing).

          What he felt now wasn’t regret. Not exactly. Maybe…remorse? Certainly not shame. _Sherlock, you made a big mistake this time_ , lectured an inner voice which sounded remarkably like John Watson, _you know this wasn’t a good idea. You know how she feels about you._

          “Shut up, John,” he muttered crossly.

          “Hmm?” Molly asked sleepily, rousing from where she was curled under the covers next to him.

          “Nothing,” he replied in a quiet voice, hoping she would fall back asleep and not want to talk. He didn’t like to talk in these situations. Usually he would be gone by now. But, well. He couldn’t exactly walk out of Molly’s flat when he was supposed to be dead. And Mycroft’s team was due to extract him in a few hours, he couldn’t wander off. He supposed he could leave the bed, dress and go into the main room of the flat.

          He found that he didn’t want to move. The bed was warm and soft and so was the woman next to him.

          She opened her eyes and smiled at him, “You’re still here,” she spoke with surprise but no condemnation, and he relaxed incrementally. The way she looked at him hadn’t changed. It was still the unfathomable expression she always had. Not like she saw him as some perfect ideal, but as if she saw him. He found it comforting and also vastly annoying.

          “Of course I’m still here, Molly Hooper. Where would I go?” He spoke brusquely, because that feeling was back. It was a good thing he was lying down, because he felt off-kilter.

          “You might have gone out to watch telly,” she suggested, but her smile was full of mystery, as if she didn’t mean it. When she reached out and put a small hand on his chest, his skin woke and stretched (metaphorically, of course, he wasn’t insane) as memory rushed back. Who would have known that insignificant little Molly Hooper was such a temptress? It had been an eye-opening encounter. Other parts of him recalled what had happened an hour before and he was glad that the sheet covered him, as he suddenly felt absurdly shy.

          It was too late, however, for her clever little hand had already slipped below the sheet and found his erection. “Well, well,” she whispered, “What a lovely surprise.”

          He felt his cheeks burn hotly; this was ridiculous. He was not a shy man. The body was transport. Erections were natural. He was not an inexperienced virgin, although clearly Molly Hooper had more erm, practical knowledge in this arena than he did. But merely by holding his penis in her hand she had rendered him a hapless fool, at the mercy of his urges.

          The intelligent, practical thing to do would be to remove her hand from his person, rise from the bed, dress, and then wait in the main room and leave without further encounters.

          He told himself this so sternly that he found he was frowning. _Do it. Remove her hand now._

          Nope. Not going to happen. Apparently his transport had rebelled, because instead of locking his long fingers around her wrist and pulling her away from his straining flesh, he tentatively put a hand on the back of her neck, and pulled her in, intending on kissing her. He hesitated at the last minute. The first time had been wild and marvelous and urgent, but they hadn’t kissed; although she had pressed her hot, open mouth to his chest, and he had worshipped her nipples. But now he was frozen, worried that kissing her was too much. She would read too much into it, things he wasn’t feeling, wasn’t prepared to feel, to want or need or ever accept.

          Molly smiled, “Do you want to kiss me, Sherlock?”

          Why did she do that? Why didn’t she just kiss him, or tacitly indicate that it was alright? Why involve him in this verbally, make him a partner in crime? Well, apparently nothing was going to happen unless he answered her, because her hand had stopped doing mad, wonderful things to his penis and she was staring at him, waiting for him to answer her. His mind went blank and he couldn’t remember what the question was or what his answer should be.

          She took pity on him, “It’s alright if you do. Kisses don’t mean love, I know that. I want to kiss you, too.” And she did, simply and sweetly.

          He fell into her mouth and kissed her with enthusiasm, if little skill. Kisses weren’t really his style. But he liked these, oh yes. And if Molly’s response were any indication, she liked them too. Soon they were panting and moaning and their hands were tangling as they tried to wrest the sheets away and bare the other’s body to their touch.

          Sherlock didn’t normally pursue sex a second time with the same partner. Usually once was enough. But perhaps there was some truth to the wisdom that people going away to war sought comfort in physical pleasure. He was going away to a very private, quite dangerous war, and he needed this pleasure. He would let his body say all the things he couldn’t admit, and he would say them to Molly, because she would understand, she would keep his secrets. He poured his goodbye into her body and let the pleasure take him away from worries about the dawn.

 

******

 

          Would Mycroft suspect? Ridiculous. It was Mycroft, he didn’t have to suspect, he would be able to see it in an instant.

          Sherlock wondered if his older brother would judge him harshly, if he would despise him for weakening and giving in to his body’s needs. He would no doubt have something cutting to say about Sherlock using a woman whom they both knew loved him, and then leaving her to lie for him, cover his sins and have nothing to comfort her but the memory of the night just passed.

          A pang of what might have been guilt nipped at his conscious, and he glanced at Molly. It had been selfish of him to use her like that. He was a selfish person. She knew that. He tried to crawl back into the icy persona he usually wore with such ease. But something about the night that had passed had shaken him, and he found he was reaching for the tatters of his formal self.

          Molly acted as if nothing had changed, dressing and brushing her hair as if he weren’t there. But then she did something which was different, that showed that perhaps the night hadn’t left her untouched. She passed by him as he sat on the bed, lacing his shoes, and she put her hand on his bowed back. Just for a moment and without speaking, but he felt as if she were communicating with him. He wondered what she was trying to say, and then as if a window had opened, he was able to understand what Molly wanted to impart. _Be safe, come back, we love you._

It was a good thing she didn’t speak the words aloud. He was withdrawing into himself, preparing for the lonely journey ahead of him. But he was glad he understood.

          Soon Mycroft was there, silent and all-seeing. He made no off-colour remarks, but thanked Molly gravely for her invaluable assistance and assured her that no one had shown the slightest interest in her but that his people would be monitoring the situation. He provided her a number to call, should she ever be concerned.

          Mycroft nodded at Sherlock, “Come, it’s time.”

          Sherlock wasn’t going to hug Molly, or get weepy on her shoulder. Still, he felt he should tell her farewell, and thank her for everything she had risked by helping him. “Molly, I--“  he floundered, uncomfortable with feelings. Molly saved him one last time; her small, capable hand squeezed his, then she pulled him to her for a hug, standing on tip toes so she could whisper near his ear, “I know, you awkward git. I’m going to miss you. Be safe, yeah? And try to come home soon…we’ll be waiting for you.”

          Sherlock hugged her back, then pulled up the hood of the ratty jacket he was wearing as part of his disguise and ducked through the door and down the hall to the back stairs. Molly maintained her pose even as she heard him disappear, but Mycroft turned in the doorway to give her one last appraising look. Gone was the brave little smile, already the squared shoulders were sagging. When she saw him looking at her, Molly rallied, but it was clear tears weren’t far off. He nodded gravely, “Thank you, Miss Hooper.”

          “Mr. Holmes,” it was all she could manage. Her veneer of bravery was cracking and tears thickened her voice. He shut the door on the gallant figure of Molly Hooper and she was alone.

 

******

 

          In a deserted industrial area, Mycroft and Sherlock waited. The only sounds around them were the furtive scuffle of rodents, and the occasional drip of rain from the rusted holes in the roof. The two brothers, knowing they were about to be parted, for a long time, perhaps even forever, had no words. Sherlock chafed at being beholden to his officious elder brother, but there was no one better in such a situation than Mycroft Holmes, and under such circumstances as these Sherlock wanted the best. It didn’t mean that the two of them were suddenly going to become mawkish and sentimental. Still, there were one or two things Sherlock needed to say.

          “John—“

          “Shall be watched closely, I give you my word. As will Mrs. Hudson and the Inspector.”

          “Molly—“

          “Will also be watched. I wasn’t lying; as of now there is no indication that anyone has given her a glance since this all started.”

          “She’s bound to come under scrutiny for performing my autopsy.”

          “I’ll take care of it.”

          Sherlock hesitated, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. In some way he wanted to make certain that Molly wouldn’t be hurt because of what had happened between them that night, but anything he could say would sound ridiculous.

          Mycroft glanced at his vibrating mobile. “The car will be here in approximately two minutes.”

          “If you don’t hear from me, it doesn’t mean I’m not alright. Don’t worry Mummy and Father if you don’t receive regular communications.”

          “I think I can handle it,” Mycroft’s voice was dry. “You may have the easier task. I have to go tell Mummy that you’re alive and on the run. She’ll be furious that I let it get this far.”

          “Nonsense. This all played out quite as we imagined it would.”

          “Yes, but a mother is bound to have a different perspective of it all.”

          “Couldn’t be avoided.”

          The car, its headlights dark, approached, sliding to a quiet stop outside the warehouse. The time had come.

          Sherlock went to step into the car, but was halted by Mycroft’s words, “Do return, brother mine. I should hate to lose you in earnest.”

          The younger Holmes scoffed, “Are we doing feelings now?” There was no heat behind his words, and he lingered long enough to hold out his hand. Mycroft completely stunned him by pulling him into a quick, rough embrace. “Take care.”

          “You as well, Myc.”

          Sherlock ducked into the backseat of the vehicle and pulled the door closed. Mycroft moved back into the shadowy interior of the warehouse and watched as the car started to move away. Suddenly it stopped, and the car reversed; the rear window purred down and Sherlock stuck his head out, “Molly’s very attached to her cat, if you break in, make sure the cat doesn’t slip out. She’d never forgive you.”

          Mycroft pondered his brother’s words as the car slipped away in the night. Why should his brother think he would do any surveillance personally?


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two, following up on Molly and Sherlock's night together. There is wine, and pasta! And misunderstandings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to post this the day following the posting of Chapter One, however we experienced internet connectivity issues and I had to sit and wait. However, in the meantime, y'all benefited, because I wrote some more installments to Longings and will be posting them all today. Merry Christmas!

_Six weeks later…_

****

          “Sodding rain,” Molly grumbled, shaking her rain jacket and stomping her shoes on the rug. She didn’t know why it was bothering her so. Normally she didn’t mind the rain, was used to it and accepted it as a matter of course. But she had been irritable lately, and the rain was just one more thing to annoy her.

          Toby greeted her with enthusiasm, galloping into the living room to wind himself around her ankles, meowing pitifully. “What a fake,” Molly chuckled, bending to pick him up and give him a snuggle. “You’d think I neglected you.” With a sudden pang she recalled that she had forgotten to fill his food bowl before she left for work.

          She carried him into the kitchen with her and set him down; to her surprise his bowls were full. “Oh, I guess I fed you after all.” She fetched a treat and let him nose it delicately as she went to change her clothes. A hot shower sounded heavenly, but she was starving and wanted to get dinner on.

          Comfortably attired in track bottoms, an oversized t-shirt and wooly socks, she padded back down the hall, stopping in the loo. She went to sit on the toilet and reached to lift the lid before she realized that it was already up. How odd. Usually she left the lid down, as Toby had once or twice gotten adventurous in the past and fallen in. She must have been even more distracted than she thought this morning.

          Back in the kitchen Toby had finished his treat and was sniffing at the mail which she had placed on the table. “My, you finished that fast…you must have been hungry. But you haven’t touched your food all day. Do you feel alright?” She peered into his dear, furry little face and he touched his nose to hers, making her chuckle. She hoped he wasn’t getting sick. Normally he had made good inroads into his food by the time she got home from work, usually he finished his kibble before the day was over, and she had been intending on getting him an automatic feeder.

          Molly washed her hands and set about boiling water for pasta. She wasn’t a bad cook, but she didn’t often make anything for just herself; takeaway comprised most of her meals. She was craving spaghetti Bolognese, however, the way her mother had always made it. She put the minced beef in the microwave to thaw and opened a jar of sauce, beginning to add seasonings, wine and chopped herbs as her mother had done. It wasn’t home-made sauce but it was delicious and she could use the comfort of the memory of her mother.

          The sauce was simmering, the water hadn’t reached a boil and the meat still had several minutes to go before it was defrosted. She grabbed her usual wine glass and poured herself a healthy measure of merlot while she mixed a garlic spread for her bread.

          She had just started browning the meat when her doorbell rang. “Who could that be?” she asked Toby, moving the pan off the heat.

          The last person she had expected to see stood there. “Oh! My—Mr. Holmes, hello! Is everyt—“ Molly abruptly stopped talking, aware that she had nearly asked if there were something wrong with Sherlock. She stood back, “I’m sorry, please won’t you come in?”

          He thanked her and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

          “Is everything alright?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “Is it—him? Has something happened to him? Has someone been following me?”

          “No, no, everything is quite alright, I assure you. I didn’t mean to alarm you, my apologies, Miss Hooper.”

          Molly’s shoulders sagged, “Thank heavens! I’ve been so worried that something might have happened to him. Or that someone might be following me.”

          “The radar is clear, as far as you are concerned. Have you any reason to worry?”

          Any reason to worry…? Molly felt hysteria threaten. She had helped a man fake his suicide, performed an autopsy on the corpse which had taken his place (she really didn’t want to think about how the Holmes brothers had gotten their hands on the unfortunate man, but she had been assured he hadn’t been harmed for their purposes), signed her name to official documents, lied blatantly to all and sundry about the death of Sherlock Holmes, lied to her best friend about the whole affair, watched John Watson shrivel into something small and gray and lifeless, comforted Mrs. Hudson as she cried on her shoulder, listened to Greg Lestrade’s guilty ramblings about how he should have stood up for Sherlock, fended off the kindly meant inquiries of Mike Stamford as to how she was holding up…and this man wanted to know if she had any reason to worry?

          The expression on Mycroft’s face might have made her laugh if she hadn’t already begun crying. He looked petrified, as if she were a bomb, about to explode in his face. The poor man was frozen, an expression of dismay and concern on his prissy face. Molly dropped onto the couch and picked up a throw pillow to muffle her sobs. This was ridiculous; everything was alright, Sherlock was as okay has he could be; no one was threatening her; no one had even looked very hard in her direction. But all the stress and worry and heartache of the past few months had caught up with her and so she sobbed.

          After a moment or two (perhaps more like a minute or two) she felt Mycroft’s hand land hesitantly on her shoulder, give a clumsy little pat. He started to withdraw his hand but she raised her head and gave him a teary smile. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure you’re dreadfully uncomfortable right now. It’s alright, you can go.”

          He grimaced as if he agreed, but politeness bade him remain. Tugging at his trousers he sat on her coffee table and gingerly took her hand in his. “Miss Hooper, I’m afraid I’m not very good with people. This can’t come as a surprise to you,” he smiled with self-derision, “however, that doesn’t mean that I don’t understand that you are distressed. You—you are gentle and kind and lying to friends and colleague cannot be easy for you. What my brother and I have asked of you has clearly taken a toll, and here you are, unable to share it with anyone.”

          Afterward, Molly wasn’t sure quite why she suddenly understood that Mycroft’s surprising empathy stemmed from his own feeling of guilt, isolation and fear. He wore his mask so well that she tended to forget that he was subject to turmoil as much as anyone. But he had helped orchestrate his brother’s apparent suicide, spirited him out of the country to exile, danger and possibly even death. He had been forced to lie to even more people than she, probably; he had carried on with his head held high as the papers and news-sites trumpeted abuse about the allegations surrounding Sherlock.

          Impulsively, she disentangled her hand gently from his, but before his face could freeze and he could withdraw, she sucked up her courage and hugged him.

          “I’m being a selfish beast,” she whispered, “he’s your younger brother and this must be a million times harder for you.”

          He was stiff in her arms, but she felt a deep sigh expand his frame, then leave him in a whoosh. “Yes,” he said simply. “I must admit it has been—difficult.”

          Taking pity on the poor man, she broke the hug but smiled at him as she put distance between them. “You must need someone to talk to sometimes,” she suggested, “I’m a very good listener, if you ever need a discreet ear.”

          His smile was a surprise. She had seen him smile before, a tight, smarmy, condescending expression which did him no favors. This was much more human and approachable. She felt a wall had come down between them; his defences were still very much in place, and Molly instinctively knew that it would take a long time and more than one hug to breech them. But he had let her in, a very, very little.

          “I was just making dinner,” she said now, “I’d love it if you joined me.”

          “That’s most kind of you—“

          “Please. It would be nice not to be alone.” She spoke with deliberation; it wasn’t only herself who could stand a little sympathetic company to stave off the loneliness.

          “Then I accept, thankfully. Might I help?” His offer was polite but she couldn’t picture him in the kitchen. Hiding a smile she waved his offer aside.   
“Oh, no thank you, I’ve got it under control. Why don’t you have a seat and keep me company? Would you like a glass of wine?”

          He accepted, sitting somewhat stiffly at her tiny table. She poured him a glass of the merlot she was drinking and had turned back to the stove, missing his pinched expression when he took a sip. She found herself keeping up a running stream of slightly nervous chatter as she flitted about the kitchen. She hadn’t been planning on serving any greens with her spaghetti and bread, instead looking for comforting carbs; but now she felt compelled to make the meal a little fancier. The head of lettuce in her fridge didn’t bear too close an inspection, and the endive was wilted. She cursed silently, and hunted about, finally emerging triumphantly with broccoli. Steamed and finished with a little garlic oil, lemon and Parmesan it would do nicely.

          Once the meat was browned, drained and seasoned, she added in the sauce, covered it and left it to simmer while she prepared the broccoli and put the bread—liberally slathered with garlic butter and covered in cheese—in the broiler to cook.

          There was a little time for her to relax, and she poured herself a second glass, glancing at Mycroft’s; but he had barely touched his and she flushed. No doubt he was used to much more sophisticated wines. As if he had read her mind—he had—Mycroft took a sip and kept a non-judgmental expression on his face. Now that she had invited him to stay, Molly wondered what had possessed her. What on earth were the two of them to talk about?

          Sherlock, it would appear.

          “Our absent friend departed safely. I had a communication from him a few days ago and all is well.”

          “That’s good,” Molly said softly, turning the stem of the wineglass between her fingers.

          “I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than that,” Mycroft said after a silence had fallen between them.

          She looked at him, “No, of course not. Thank you for letting me know that he’s alright.”

          “Certainly. I promised him I would look out for you, and I feel it is my duty to alleviate your worries—in so far as I am able.”

          “You promised Sherlock you’d look after me?” Molly’s expression was hard to fathom. Mycroft studied her carefully, but he wasn’t sure if she were peeved or pleased. Possibly unnerved.

          “Given the circumstances under which you were involved in his demise, and the forces at work behind his down fall, we felt it best to keep surveillance over you. Nothing intrusive, of course.”

          Somehow Molly rather suspected that her idea of intrusive didn’t match that of the Holmes brothers. She considered being affronted, but instead found it rather comforting, the idea that someone was watching out for her. Moriarity might be dead, but Sherlock had made it clear that his nemesis had had far-reaching power; she’d rather not face that alone.

          They made stilted small talk during dinner; there wasn’t much that they had in common and she didn’t know what to say to him. He was no doubt used to much more sophisticated and erudite dinner companions; or to dining in splendid solitude, needing no more than his own thoughts to occupy him.

          As for Mycroft, he was practically sweating, trying to maintain a casual front and act as if he ate spaghetti with a young woman who was for all intents and purposes a stranger to him, in her tiny flat, at a wonky kitchen table, while her cat peered suspiciously at him from the sofa back. Thankfully cats were unable to talk, and this one was unable to reveal that this was not Mycroft’s first visit of the day.

          He insisted on dong the washing up, despite her protests, and soon he had shed his suit coat, rolled up the sleeves of his impeccable white shirt, and pulled on rubber gloves. Molly excused herself to use the toilet and found the lid up; Mycroft must have left it up when he used it earlier. She wondered if it would be rude to mention it; it smacked of presumption to assume that he would return to her place, become familiar enough a visitor that he needed to know to leave the lid down.

           Molly returned to the kitchen and hovered nervously nearby, loathe to leave him alone while he washed her dishes, but not comfortable with abandoning him. She poured herself a third glass of wine and looked up in time to see Mycroft watching her from the corner of his eyes.

          “I don’t usually drink this much on a Tuesday,” she said a trifle defensively, jerking her chin obstinately, “but it was a bloody trying day.”

          “Of course,” he murmured, soaping a dish. She felt like he didn’t believe her. Well to hell with him.

          The silence got to her again. “I’ve been stressed lately, everything considered. I suppose I have been letting off steam by drinking more wine.”

          “Mmm,” he hummed.

          “I don’t know what’s been wrong with me the last week or so. Stress I guess. I’ve h ad trouble sleeping but I’m so tired all the time. And I’m getting very forgetful. I thought I forgot to feed Toby but then I got home and his food was full, and I left things around the flat all out of the usual order.”

          “Stress can play tricks with your mind,” Mycroft offered professorially. “Studies have been done—“

          Molly was staring at Toby’s food bowl. It was still full. Undeniably, it was full. But she distinctly did not remember feeding him this morning. It had been in the back of her mind all day, nagging guilt at what a horrible cat mother she was. She’d hoped that he wasn’t yowling and bothering the neighbors. But he evidently wasn’t hungry, as he hadn’t touched the food. As if he had already eaten his fill. And yet the dish was full.

          Her toilet lid had been left up; left up just like it had after Mycroft had used it.

          She looked at him, mouth dropping open in shock as her mind processed the evidence. “You’ve been in my flat already!”

          Not a flinch, not a tremor. He turned off the water, carefully stripped off the gloves, and turned to face her. “Yes”

          “What? _Why?!_ ” She gasped, “Did you go through my things?” Horrible visions of him inspecting her tatty knickers; seeing the old t-shirt she wore to bed thrown across the unmade covers raced through her head. Her old diaries from high school were on her bookcase, tucked in between family photo albums and her school books from university. Surely he hadn’t read them?

          “I merely wished to ascertain that no one else—unauthorized—had been in your flat. I didn’t find any evidence of that, there are no recording devices of any kind; everything is quite as it should be. And no, I did not go through your things.” He made a moue of distaste. Oh, well, it was bloody alright for him to break into her home and poke about, but God forbid she accuse him of snooping.

          “I want you to leave.”

          “Molly—“

          “No,” she squeaked, anger and humiliation and hurt stealing her voice. “Please go.”

          She wanted him to leave so she could cry again. He was horrible. He snuck around, poked his nose where it didn’t belong, then he came back and acted as if he hadn’t been there. He watched her cry, ate her food…what was his game?

          “Wait!” Molly was peremptory, and Mycroft stopped, still holding his suit coat, sleeves rolled up, as if he were going to leave looking like that. She must have sounded serious, maybe even a bit scary, for him to hurry off looking less than his usual picture perfect self. Good.

          “Why did you come back?”

          He turned carefully, as if she were a foe; as if they stood at twenty paces, guns drawn. It was rather nice to feel she had the power to cause a man as formidable as Mycroft Holmes to treat her with caution.

          “I wanted to let you know that—our friend—was well.”

          “So why come and snoop while I wasn’t here?”

          “I thought it better to check for signs of intruders while you were gone. I didn’t want to worry you.” His mouth twisted. “I see now I shouldn’t have bothered with subterfuge.”

          “I’d rather you were honest.”

          “So I now understand.”

          They regarded one another with mutual unease. Mycroft broke the silence. “Might I ask how you ascertained that I had been here?”

          She explained about the toilet; the cat food. What might have been admiration flashed in his eyes for a moment. “It appears that I’ve grown rusty with fieldwork. I must apologize for using your facilities, boorish of me, I know, but nature called.”

          “And the cat food?” she asked curiously.

          “Ah. Well. The b—er, your cat was wailing rather piteously, and I saw that its food bowl was empty. I gathered from the state of your bedroom that you had departed rather precipitously this morning, and neglected to feed it. I was only trying to help,” he finished somewhat self-righteously. She didn’t know why it struck her as funny, but suddenly she wanted to laugh. She’d cornered Mycroft Holmes, the big, scary government baddie. She had had him on the run out the door with a few words, and now he was trying to maintain his dignity but still clearly hoping he hadn’t completely lost her favour.

          “Well, I suppose, since you fed my cat— _his_ name is _Toby_ ,” she stressed with sarcasm, “that I can forgive you this once. But in future, please don’t sneak around or keep me in the dark.”

          “Understood.” He stood in the middle of the room as if he couldn’t decide if he should leave, stay or return to the kitchen and the dishes. Then as if he had come to a decision he sighed (in an all too world-weary fashion, as if he anticipated an unpleasant experience). “Since I have already put my foot in it, I may as well come out and ask.”

          “Yes?” Molly was wary. What on earth could he be about to ask her?

          “It has come to my attention that you are exhibiting certain behaviours—that is to say, in some ways you have altered…for instance, the fatigue, the moodiness, your distracted state…” Mycroft trailed off, and then blurted out, “Could you be pregnant?”

          Well, _that_ certainly wasn’t what she had expected him to say. “Erm, no.”

          “It would explain—“

          “No, Mycroft. I’m certain I’m not pregnant. I have an IUD, plus we used protection.” Her face flamed, and she rather thought his ears looked pinker than usual.

          “Ah, yes. Well, of course, accidents can still happen—“

          “I’ve had my p—er, um, uh, my courses have come and gone.” Courses, she thought, how old fashioned; next I’ll be saying gadzooks and forsooth! But she felt oddly constrained to talk about bodily functions with this man.

          It wasn’t her imagination, his ears were flaming and he looked indescribably uncomfortable. Well that made two of them. It didn’t take much prompting for her to convince him that she was capable of finishing the dishes. He thanked her for dinner and rather precipitously departed.

          Closing the door Molly sagged against it. “Well, that was awkward.” Shaking her head she pushed away from the door and headed for the kitchen. What a very odd night. The Holmes boys certainly were a rollercoaster ride for the emotions; she wondered how any one family had spawned the two of them.

          Toby came to peer around the doorway at her. “He’s gone, you can come out,” she smiled. Clearly her cat was no more enamored of her visitor than of his brother. “It _was_ sweet of him to feed you. For that alone we can give him a little leeway.” She shook her head, turning on the water. Why did the Holmes brothers have to make everything so Machiavellian? Wouldn’t it have been simpler for him to call, suggest he send someone to scan her flat for bugs (or whatever they were called), and just ask her if she thought there was any chance she might be pregnant?

          But nooooo, he had to be all devious and underhanded. Strangely, Molly found herself smiling. They were mad, really, the Holmes boys. Perhaps that’s what she liked about them.

         


End file.
